Possession
by Eros and Equus
Summary: Mr. Mercer decides that Cutler is to be his by any means necessary. Slash.


The boy's father had employed him shortly before his death, and for whatever reason, his son had decided to keep him on. From that moment forward, Mercer had been utterly entranced by the slim young man who had quite suddenly inherited the Beckett fortune. Perhaps what they said about nobility was true, that the rich were so much more beautiful than the poor were. Mercer could not find a whore, male or female, who could rival Cutler Beckett in looks or wit. He was taken, infatuated, and in love with the boy, and fully intended to make him his.

Christmas fell some months later, and though the former Lord Beckett was not there to direct the festivities, the ball held at the manor was no less splendid. Mercer, being a servant, was of course not invited, but Cutler had provided each member of his household with a bit of extra pay and a bottle of spirits. While Cutler danced with giggling young woman and charmed his contemporaries, Mercer took his bottle, stole away to the boy's chambers, and waited for him.

-

"Where's Roberts?" Cutler inclined his head to one side and studied the man sitting on his bed. He was not at all startled, but rather very intrigued. Clearly the man had something to say, or else he would not be here.

"Out."

The old valet had probably not woken yet, if he would even ever wake again. At his age, being struck in the back of the head with a candelabra was likely lethal. That was precisely why Mercer had used the heavy object to begin with. He wanted no interruptions.

"Well then. Mr. Mercer is it? Might I ask why you are here, what is it that you want?"

Cutler prepared himself for the usual demand of more money, and peeled off his white gloves, casting them on his bureau. Servants always wanted something; clearly a place to live, food, and wages were not enough to please them. He had already decided that he would not give in to this one's demands; if a man could not even control his own home, then how could he expect to go out and have others to take him seriously?

"You."

"Oh…" the words fell dumbly and Cutler did not bother to hide the fact that he was clearly startled. All of the things that Mercer could have asked for, that was not one he had been anticipating. Perhaps it would have been easier to just give him gold.

It was at that moment that Mercer rose from the bed and fell on the boy with wild abandon, shoving away protesting hands and claiming a sweet mouth that did not want to be kissed. He peeled off the dark frock coat and dropped it to the floor; irritated at the way Cutler was writhing and resisting.

"I insist that you stop this right now," the boy growled, his pale eyes narrowed to angry slits. "Leave. Now."

Mercer simply shoved him backward on to the bed and pinned him down with his knees, preventing any escape that the lad might have in mind. In Mercer's opinion, he'd waited quite long enough for this and he was going to get it one way or another. He snarled, and suckled hard on the pale throat that was exposed now that the snowy white cravat was gone.

"You can either accept this and it'll be over soon, or you can keep fighting and I'll kill you when we're done," Mercer whispered in Cutler's ear, making the boy shudder. After that, he was still and quiet.

Cutler lay motionless as Mercer stripped him of his waistcoat, shirt, and breeches; the older man ran his hands down his legs, peeling off the white silk stockings, almost gently now.

To Mercer, this was breathtaking; the boy's ethereal, slim body so untouched. The wig that was most unsuitable in Mercer's opinion had been knocked aside, and Cutler's hair was actually a deep auburn. It was difficult to believe that he would be twenty the next spring.

Mercer reached down and unbuttoned himself, then liberally coated his cock with oil stolen from the pantry. Even in his desire, Mercer had no inclination to hurt his master. He simply wanted that soft, pale body wrapped around him, wanting him.

His assumptions were correct, Cutler was a virgin, and whimpered pitifully when breached. His soft cries continued until some hidden depth inside him was struck, then he moaned headily and gripped Mercer's shoulders with surprising strength. Mercer simply smiled in the darkness; he'd known the boy had come around eventually. After all, he'd seen the bored glances Cutler gave visiting young women. He wasn't one for lasses.

Every time Mercer withdrew and thrust forward again, the boy sighed as if he did not remember that not half an hour before he had been fighting and protesting. Mercer gripped the boy's wrists above his head, pressing down hard on delicate bones with the rough pad of his thumb. Cutler warned of his impending release with a series of pathetic whimpers and cries while Mercer moaned deeply, the sticky fluid already wet and warm between their bodies. He nuzzled Mercer's shoulders while the older man tangled his bony fingers through damp red strands woven with gold.

"It does not pay to struggle," Mercer murmured softly, sated.

"Nor does it pay to bite the hand that feeds you," Cutler retorted. "Remember that, Mr. Mercer."

The next time they come together, Cutler is the one to hold Mercer down.


End file.
